


Polyphagia

by hannigramcracker



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, M/M, Nightmares, mention of animal abuse, not really but only kind of, slight dubcon, slight mentions of self harm, slight noncon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2013-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-27 12:54:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/979158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannigramcracker/pseuds/hannigramcracker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will has a terrible night and can't seem to decide what reality is anymore. He finds himself on Hannibal's porch in the middle of the night, looking for the help he knows this man is the only one to give.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Polyphagia

**Author's Note:**

> If this looks at all familiar, it is because I also posted it on my fanfiction.net account. I felt like it might be a little more appreciated here, and my account is brand new. This is also my first Hannibal fic so I hope everything worked out well. Thank you for reading!

**Polyphagia:** _excessive hunger or increased appetite._

He couldn’t do this any longer. He couldn’t and he would not. He had no idea what time it was or who he was. But he knew he was in his house, standing in his living room. That counted for something, right? Not enough. All of the things around him looked familiar, but he had no idea who he was. Yes, that was his bed, his desk, his dresser. The floor was the same one he walked on a thousand times, the walls had seen him at his best and worst, the ceiling knew who he was. But he himself did not. And that was what mattered right now.

He stood in the center of the familiar room. He looked around him and knew he belonged here, but god what was his _name?_ He looked at his trembling hands, they were the same ones that had been attached to his arms for twenty some years. How old was he? What time was it? He covered his face in his hands and breathed in through his nose. He let his hands trail across his features, like a blind man would, hoping this would help him rediscover who he was. But no, it wasn’t helping. Nothing was helping.

He was positively vibrating with energy. It was a surprise he was not convulsing, that he remained upright. His breath came in tiny puffs and he swore he heard himself whimper. He couldn’t be sure-- he couldn’t seem to recall what the sound of his voice was. Usually by this time, at least one of his dogs would come into the room, curiously rubbing against his legs in an attempt to bring some calm to his body. Animals always knew. But how did he know he had animals? No dog was there now, he was _almost_ sure of that. But was he sure? He was certain he had no companionship right now, but he had to be sure he even had dogs to begin with. He could have invented that idea. He could be allergic to dogs for all he knew right now.

His head started to hurt. God damn, what was his _name?_ He took a few steps in the direction of the living room. He had to know if there was a small herd of dogs waiting for him. He had to know. He stumbled on the side of his bed and knocked over his alarm clock. The racket was loud, but there was no answering bark. Jesus, he really did invent the dogs didn’t he? How was that possible? He could picture every pattern of fur, every height, every smell. Which dog liked which food, which ones wouldn’t eat until the others finished, which ones played fetch and which ignored the game entirely. This could not be happening to him. He refused to believe it.

He didn’t know what to believe anymore. He was falling apart; the thread that held the seams of him together slowly and rather elegantly unraveling. He was holding onto the needle, but he could not get the thread back in the eye to save his life. He couldn’t hold the thread steady enough, its very fibers were coming apart from one another, fraying at the edges as he tried desperately to shove it back through the hole and stitch himself back up. And the fabric of himself was slowly wilting both forward and backward while his hands were so preoccupied with the thread. He was standing, his skin melting from his frame, nothing more than a skeletal mass of bone and muscle clutching onto a needle like the lifeline it was attempting to be.

He opened the door to his bedroom, the knob worn under his hands, and immediately faltered with what he saw. The stench was what hit him first, almost made him vomit. The sweet, metallic scent of blood filled the air. The sight gagged him, he covered his mouth with the crook of his elbow and looked at the wreckage of the room in front of him. There were dogs in the room, all right. The answer to his earlier questions being revealed in ways he had not even dared to imagine.

Seven dogs, spread out across the room. Five lay underneath a canopy of skin and fur, still dripping with red. The floor was slick with it. Soon his bare feet were covered. It felt odd between his toes, squishy and not entirely unpleasant. He knelt next to the dogs that were laying under the gruesome tent.They were dead as well. What were their names? Who did this? Who could have done this to his dogs, to him? He reached down to pet one of the animals. The poor dog looked so stricken, its face frozen in a mask that screamed a breach of trust. He had promised he would protect the dogs, and look what had happened under his own roof. Maybe they would have been better off if he had left them where he found them. Then they might still be alive. He scrubbed his hand across his face again and, with horror, really looked at it for the first time.

Oh _god._

It was covered in blood. How had he not seen that earlier? Blood and...and fur. Tiny clumps of animal hair that hung around after he had murdered and strung up his dogs. His only friends and he had killed them, mercilessly. He still did not know what his name was, but he knew that he had done this.

This was unforgivable. This was worse than killing any real human. This was worse than how it felt after killing Garrett Jacob Hobbs. Even if he could only barely remember who that man was right now. These dogs knew him and cared about him before anyone else did. They accepted him and loved him and this was how he repaid him. No wonder he had limited human interaction. He couldn’t even trust himself with his own animals.

He shrank back from the scene, backing up on his haunches and practically crawling over to his desk. He felt like a dog himself in this moment. Is that who he was? He was another of this strange man’s dogs. He had come back in from the bedroom to see his family, every single brother and sister dead and mutilated before his eyes. He gnashed and bared his teeth, a growl forming low in his throat. He walked around the living room on all fours, taking in the scenery. The skins still had the paws attached. They were strung up with fishing line and hooks from the desk in the corner. He continued his frenzied circuit, leaving handprints and knee prints in the blood and tracking it across the floor. With horror, he realized the bones from the carasses of his skinned brothers were shoved into the mouths of his sisters that lay on the floor. Forced down their throats, bloody and choked. He approached them as quickly as his four legs could take him. They weren’t breathing. He did the only thing he could think to and began licking them, trying to clean the blood off their faces and fur. His efforts did little but make him cough for a full minute straight.

There was nothing he could do. They were gone. His only friends, his only family. Gone. Gone, gone, gone. Who was he to stay without them? Who was he at all, for that matter? He got back to the desk in the corner as quickly as he could, trying not to slip in the sticky red mess that was quickly becoming the predominant trait of the interior of his house. He fell face forward a few times, righting himself quickly. Frustrated, he heard himself _barking._ The sound felt strange and unnatural as much as it felt comfortable and normal coming from his throat. He reached the desk and sat on the chair, pinching his tail underneath him. He yelped quietly, but continued on. He found four fish hooks and decided they were good enough for the job. He tied them to fishing line, struggling much less with this than with his own life’s thread -- which was unravelling ever quickly, there was practically none left.

Once all four were attached to the strong line, he picked the bigger two and dug them into his ankles. In one part of wilted white skin, and out the other side. The wounds were outlined in blood that dripped down alabaster to meet the scuffed red stains on his feet from the floor. He howled with the pain, but continued. He pulled the end of the line to make sure it was secure. He moved from his right ankle to his left and did the same thing, avoiding the bone and searching deep in the muscle so the hook would not come free. Satisfied, he tied the line together between his feet and took the next hook in his hands. This one had a speckled feather and a shiny bead on it to catch a fish’s eye. But this hook would catch no fish. This hook was distantly special to him, but he could not figure out the reason. He dug it into his wrist- in one side, out the other. As easy as buttoning up a shirt, tying a shoe. This one stung a little more, and definitely bled more. He whimpered, whined, licked the blood that trailed down his arm clean. He repeated the process, all of his limbs bloody and laced up. Ready to be strung up and join his brothers.

Quickly he realized a problem. He would not be able to hang himself up. In order to do that, he would need fingers, and he only had paws. He closed his eyes in despair. When he opened them, he staring head on into a huge stag’s eyes. A short glimmer of who he was resonated with the stag, but he could not grasp it entirely. This stag knew who he was. Who he actually was. He was not a dog. He was a man. But his dogs were still dead and he still could not think of his own name.

He looked down at his limbs, the hooks were real and painful and bloody (did he hit a vein?) and digging into his angry red skin. But this was not enough. He was standing, bleeding, staring at the stag and his dead companions and he could not take it. He opened the left drawer of his desk and produced a shiny handgun. He held it to his temple, fingers fully functional now, his left hand hanging awkwardly suspended over his torso because of the fishing line tied between the two hooks in his wrist. The safety was off and he was pulling the trigger.

A deafening crack.

And he opened his eyes.

He was staring at a door. His hand was up like he had just knocked or rung the doorbell. It was cold and he was not wearing enough clothing for this. He was only wearing a pair of ratty plaid sleep pants. He turned his hands over to examine his arms, no blood. No marks or anything. He quickly checked his ankles as well, hoping he was not bleeding all over someone’s front porch. He was not. There was a weight in his right pocket, though, that told him his gun had followed him here. Wherever here was.

It was late, the stars very clear pinpricks in the quiet black sky. Were his dogs actually dead, then? He stared at the ornate glass window in this door, used to blur what was going on inside. It was as dark on the other side as it was on the side he was standing on. He buried his hands in his curls and tugged a bit, gritting his teeth, trying to remember. Where was he? How did he get here? What was his goddamned name? He was losing touch with the things around him again when the light behind the door finally turned on. The door opened a crack and he looked up, fear wild in his eyes, to stare into the face of the man who stood behind the door. He knew this man, he knew he did.

“Will?”

_Hannibal._

“Will,” He repeated quietly,breathlessly. That was it. That was his name. Oh, god, that was his name. He could cry. “Will Graham. My name is Will Graham.”

“Perhaps you should come inside, Will.” Hannibal said, reaching a hand out to steady the man standing on his doorstep. Will welcomed the contact, leaned into it, lost his balance into it. A moment later he felt Hannibal’s strong lithe hands holding him up and guiding him over the threshold. His hands were cool against the heated torment of Will’s body. He could curl up and sleep in this man’s arms at this moment, if he was being honest with himself. Will fleetingly wondered if Hannibal would allow that.

Will opened his eyes again when the movement around him stopped. He was sitting on one of Hannibal’s lush leather couches, not the ones that he sat on during a session, but the ones that he sat on when he came over for dinner. Will hung his head as clarity rushed back to him in short colorful bursts. His head was exploding, a supernova behind his eyes. He felt more like a patient than a dinner guest right now.

“What time is it?” Will asked through his fingers, keeping his jaw clenched.

“It is 2:17 am, Will.” Hannibal said, supplying only the answer to Will’s question and not provoking anything else. He would wait until Will was ready. He must have felt Will was more patient than guest at the moment as well.

“Oh god. I’m-I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was so...late. I’m so sorry. I’ll just-” Will stood, or attempted to, and ended up falling back on the couch. His head hurt too much, he was getting motion sick from everything that was flowing around him. He could not decide which was better; the panicked emptiness of not knowing who he was or the overwhelming fullness of being aware of everything.

“You will just sit back down, William. Try to calm down a moment while I go put the kettle on. Nothing is going to help you more than tea right now.”

“Maybe some whiskey.” Will muttered, listening to Hannibal glide into the kitchen. He opened his eyes, experimentally and looked around the room still trying to regain his bearings. He was still sitting on the sofa, but he now noticed the few candles on the coffee table that were lit and looked like they’d been burning for some time. Was Hannibal asleep at all when Will had showed up?

Will closed his eyes again, not because he was trying to block anything out but because he was trying to school himself into a state of at least semi-calm. As calm as his constantly frayed nerves got, anyway. He was looking forward to that tea. He knew it was going to help him. No matter what it was that Hannibal prepared, it always did help him. Hannibal always knew exactly what Will needed. He rubbed his temples as he heard Hannibal enter the room again.

“Camomile. My apologies, I seem to be alarmingly short on whiskey this evening,” Hannibal handed him a steaming mug while he settled into a chair opposite Will with an elegant tea cup and saucer. Will smiled humorlessly but took the mug, thankful that Hannibal hadn’t brought him a tea cup and saucer as well. His hands were still shaking so much that he was sure he would have destroyed the elegance of it with the constant clanking. He took a tentative sip. It was warm and tasty and felt so wonderful on his throat that he knew he had been screaming earlier that night. Screaming or...or barking. God, his dogs. He choked slightly on the tea and Hannibal was lowering his cup into the saucer on the table, ready to assist if need be.

“Will?”

But will could not answer. His breath was coming much too quickly-- this feeling was all too familiar to him. He hated his body and his mind for constantly betraying him in this way, but that thought was fleeting. He was more concentrated on the fact that none of the air he was sucking in seemed to be reaching his lungs. He practically flinched out of his skin when he felt a delicate touch at his wrist and long fingers loosen his white knuckled grip on the handle of the still mostly full mug. The sound it made as Hannibal set it on the table next to the burning candles was sharp and drew Will’s attention. He felt like one of those candles. Burning, burning. Aflame and melting, pooling into a hole inside himself. Losing himself slowly, but staying self contained. His mind a mess of hot molten memories and shadows of memories that were not even his. His wick burning low, flickering out.

He still was not breathing properly resulting in a bright pain between his eyes, the central point of his internal supernova. He flinched again as he felt the light touch move to his shoulder and gently begin to nudge him forward. He hated being touched when he felt like this. He hated being touched ever, really. But both of them knew Hannibal was the exception to his rule and Will complied. His head was between his knees and Hannibal’s hand was still a ghost on his back. It wasn’t an entirely unpleasant feeling, knowing he was not alone in this for once. Hannibal was saying something to him, but he could not sort his mind out, quiet it enough to listen to what was being said. He could only try to breathe. That was becoming easier by the moment, someone must be feeling bad enough for him to show him this kind of mercy. His attacks were not usually this short lived. His breathing was still gasping, a bit wheezy, but he could feel it filling his lungs again. He breathed in through his nose and he was filled with the smell of Hannibal - like spice and seasonings, overpowered by a slight musky smell, like sawdust, mixed with the camomile in the tea that still hung on his breath. Will could not describe how the mere smell of this man comforted him and made him feel safe. He really was insane, wasn’t he?

“Will? How are you?” Hannibal asked in a quiet voice.

“God, I’m so sorry.” Will says, sitting up slowly, anticipating the spin as his world righted itself.

“There is no reason to apologize. This is out of your control. I know that as well as you do.”

“That doesn’t make any difference.” Hannibal mercifully removed his hand from Will’s back and moved over slightly, giving the man the space he knew he craved.

“Do you feel ready to tell me what happened to bring you to my doorstep in the early hours of the morning? Not that I dislike your company.”

“I...I don’t know. I think I killed my do-” Will coughed and closed his eyes for a moment. He planted his elbows firmly on his thighs and leaned his chin into his hands, sitting with his back slumped but rigid. “My dogs.” He squeaked.

Hannibal nodded and folded his hands in front of him. “What leads you to believe that?”

“I don’t know if it was a dream or not. I didn’t know who I was. Hannibal, I had no idea.”

“And that frightened you?”

“Terrified me. I saw my dogs. I thought I was one of them. I was sure. I tried to...I tried to kill myself. I thought I did, but then I opened my eyes and I was in front of your door. I don’t know how I got here. I didn’t remember who I was until you said my name.”

“I don’t think your dogs are dead, Will.”

“How do you know that for sure?”

“Well, I do not know for sure. But you said you dreamt you killed yourself as well as your dogs, and you are still here.”

Will couldn’t make eye contact with the doctor. His eyes were swimming with what felt like tears, but he had no idea why he would be crying. He was aware that he was clutching his left wrist with his right hand. He had left that part of the dream out. He didn’t know how to say it, he didn’t want Hannibal to know how he had mutilated himself with something as benign as his fishing hooks - even if he had not _really_ done it.

Will could feel himself slipping again. Mentally, he reached for Hannibal, longing for a hold to sink his hooks into for nothing else if to keep him grounded. It was so frustrating, he never was able to touch reality and hold it. It was like he was trying to hold water in his hands. He could keep it for a while, but not after long it slid from between his fingers and the harder he tried to hold the faster it fell. The residue hung on his skin, making it only damp enough that he knew something used to be there, but he could not tell what.

Will made a strained noise and clenched his fists tightly. “Hannibal…”

“Will, I am here.” Will felt the man edge a little closer and the breath came easier. “You are here, as well. Right here, in my living room.” Will nodded.

“What is troubling you?”

“I’m just...I’m not sure about my dogs. And it’s really - _fuck_ \- really bothering me.” Will looked at Hannibal for the first time since his initial episode that night and saw nothing but concern in his features. And not the condescending kind, the real kind.

“I can drive you to your house if you wish. That way we both can be happy - you will see to your dogs and I will see that you have made it home safely.”

Will considered this offer for a moment before nodding quickly. He was really so lucky to have Hannibal in his life. He couldn’t think of anyone else who would bring him home at three in the morning. He didn’t think his own parents would have if he asked them. Hannibal vanished for a moment and returned with shoes on his feet and an extra jacket in his hand for Will to put on against the cold night.

“Thank you, so much.”

“Do not mention it, Will.”

Will was asleep before they were off of the long winding road that led up to Hannibal’s house. Hannibal looked over at the sleeping man beside him, stealing glances since the empty road did not require much attention. He was dwarfed in Hannibal’s coat, being so much shorter and smaller than him. Hannibal wondered about Will’s eating habits for a fleeting moment. Looking back to the road, he swallowed as saliva began to gather in his mouth.

Will’s breakdowns were becoming harder and harder for him to ignore. They were positively _delicious_. They kept increasing in severity the longer he knew the man. He wanted to know everything about every inch of his brain. It ticked in such an interesting way, in a way that he had never seen in any patient before. He longed to know about Will’s childhood, about every instance that haunted him still, what the possible causes of his condition could be. There had to be a trigger, something that snagged and tore Will down with it.

And if he couldn’t figure that out, well. It would be just as satisfying to tear open his brain physically. To feel it, pliable beneath his fingers, looping and tugging and begging to be seasoned and cooked to a golden brown. He would taste each brilliant moment, each unique thought. Every centimeter of his mind, Hannibal would take and keep inside of him, preserving it within himself forever.

Hannibal looked over again at Will and allowed himself to stare at the way his pulse jumped beneath the skin on his neck. So close it was taunting him, ever near the surface. How would it feel to have that blood flowing into his hands, flowering into something beautiful, hot and heavy. Would he catch it in a container, after he let a bit of it run over his hands, and mix with some basil perhaps to marinate Will’s brain in?

 

The car was filled with Will’s scent. Sweet and sharp - of night sweats and panic, unadulterated brilliance. The smell of his breath hung in the air as well, as he breathed easily in and out of his mouth in his sleep. How easy it would be. It would cause Hannibal no trouble at all. Will trusted him completely, he almost felt guilty about that. He could invite Will over for dinner and corner him like the scared little dog he was. How would he do it? He could snap Will’s neck; say he was going to the kitchen for more wine and sidle up behind him, cracking the life right out of him. But that way he couldn’t see his eyes. He wouldn’t be able to watch the light leave them, he wouldn’t see the last shreds of confusion as he shook and tore apart. He could bludgeon him to death, in much the same way as he offed Tobias Budge. Drop an expensive ornament on his head, crush the thoughts out of him. But, Hannibal thought, that often yielded mess, and moreover he did not want to bruise or damage Will’s sweet brain.

No. no. He would insist Will stay for dinner after one of his sessions. They would eat: Hannibal would prepare a delicious meal in preparation. A lung or kidney dish covered in lemon and garlic. Something utterly delectable to get his appetite ready for how delicious Will was going to be. He would watch as Will ate, chewed swallowed and savored every bit. Will would talk with his mouth open to praise his culinary skills, to say he has never had a meal prepared with more skill. Hannibal would nod graciously and tip his glass of red wine forward. Then he would realize that he had forgotten to give Will any wine. He would berate himself lightly and pick up Will’s empty stem.

In the kitchen, he would fill it with wine. Wine and poison. He would bring it out to Will, who would drink enthusiastically, practically licking his plate clean. Hannibal would wish he actually would bring his tongue to the plate of delicate china. They would go into the living room before Will lost his bearings entirely. It would be much easier with a couch under him. Hannibal may even be lucky enough to have a few blissful moments before Will is gone, where he is not entirely lucid, but completely compliant. Hannibal would mumble something about his desires, only the tip of what he was really feeling, and Will would reciprocate. They would be kissing, and oh Hannibal would relish the taste, like an appetizer to the main course. Only whetting his appetite. If he was lucky enough, he could coerce Will into removing his pants. He could position the man on his lap and quickly maneuver so his cock was inside of the other man. A small pocket of warmth and pleasure and he would feel Will begin to unravel entirely. God, maybe Will would still forever with Hannibal remaining rock hard inside of him.

Hannibal gasped at the jolt of feeling that pooled in his groin. He shifted his jacket a bit and moved the seat belt into a less restricting position, anchoring himself with a hand on the steering wheel. He turned into Will’s driveway. The headlights must have alerted Will’s animals to a presence, because they immediately began a cacophony of barking that snapped Will awake. Hannibal swallowed the heady want that he was still trying to quell. He smoothed his facial features and reached out to Will. Always, always in control.

Hannibal watched as Will fumbled with unbuckling his seat belt and slid out of his own seat, a touch more undignified as he normally would. He doubted Will would notice, distracted as he was. The barking of his dogs must have been music to his ears. Hannibal walked behind Will with measured and even steps, patiently waiting as Will unlocked and opened the door. The dogs came surging forward, seven mutts with tongues lapping, tails wagging. Will fell to his knees, surrounded. Hannibal could hear the shuddering intake of his breath as the tears sprang to the younger man’s eyes, overcome with relief. Hannibal walked around the scene, one of the dogs grapevining between his legs. Hannibal reached down a slender hand and scratched behind the scraggly ears.

“Thank you,” Will looked up at him with big wet eyes. In moments like this, it was easy to forget how old Will really was. He looked much younger than his years, and that made guilt swell, cold and heavy, inside Hannibal for wanting to take advantage of a man with such a young mind. Hannibal never _never_ preyed on children.

“You’re welcome, Will.” But William was not a child. Not in the slightest. “Make yourself comfortable on the couch. I will bring you back something hot from the kitchen.”

“It’ll have to be hot chocolate,” Will admits sheepishly, looking at Hannibal while slowly rising from his knees. “I don’t have any tea.”

Hannibal nodded and hastily retreated into the kitchen, trying not to think about the heat resurfacing inside him from seeing Will in that position staring right into his eyes. He kept his jacket on.

Once in the kitchen. Hannibal waited until he heard the couch squeak under Will’s, and his dog’s, weight. He reached out to steady himself against Will’s cheap knock off granite counter, both hands grasping the edge. He leaned his head down between his outstretched arms, shoulder blades bared. He breathed deeply against the blood boiling inside of him, pulsing with desire. _Not now._ He must remain dignified. He imagined Will on his knees before him, much like he was just a moment ago, but now he would be naked. He would take Hannibal in his mouth, Hannibal would not give him much of a choice, effectively muting any protests, sliding in hot and wet. He would buck and thrust and choke, and possibly kill Will that way. Suffocate him with his own body, listening to the small thready whimpers from Will’s full throat. He had never used anything but his hands before. It would be a tantalizing change of pace.

He could hear Will in the other room, talking quietly to his dogs, whispering, but he could make the sounds out perfectly. He could smell each and every one of the mutts, but the scent of Will was overpowering, all consuming, and saliva continued to pool beneath his tongue. He had never felt this type of connection to his victims, only seeing them as his next meal. Will was something more, but he could not place what. Hannibal tried to regain his equilibrium and stand, even against the twisting in the bottom of his stomach. He needed to make Will something hot before he started to wonder what was taking so long.

Hannibal looked into the cupboards, and Will was right. There was not much in these bare cupboards other than hot chocolate, dog food, and a few cheap packets of soup. He rooted around for a while, before deciding to actually make hot chocolate, lamenting the sparse supplies in Will’s kitchen, and wishing he was back in his own. Wishing, wanting to feed Will only the best bits of human flesh and watch him savor each and every bite. He wanted to fatten Will up and watch him sizzle and brown in the oven. He was heating the water (Will only had expired milk in his fridge), and listening to Will speak quietly to his pups.

“I’m so happy to see all of you. I’m so happy you’re alright. I was so scared. Terrified. I don’t know what I would do without you.” Will kept mumbling a litany of words like this over and over. His voice was low, hoarse, and guttural. Only fueling Hannibal’s arousal.

It would be so easy to kill Will right now. It would be child’s play. He could pick up a less than mediocre knife from the block on Will’s counter, walk up behind him and flay his neck open. He could cross to the front and bite into the sinew and bone, making eye contact as Will’s eyes shut, devouring him from the inside out, licking and sucking the life right out of him. His dogs would yelp and whine and bark, and Hannibal would spit blood on each of them in turn. Showering them in red, making it stick and stain their fur. They would lick it off their coats, Hannibal would turn each one of Will’s loyal dogs into cannibals, thirsting for and feeding on their master. Or he could fulfill his earlier fantasy and drug his hot chocolate and…

 _God_ if Hannibal kept his thoughts up like this, he was going to bring himself off silently in Will’s kitchen. He was getting increasingly hot and uncomfortable, and he did not bring another set of clothing to change into. It would not do to be that undignified. He could not ruin his image in front of Will. He had to remain in control.

“Hannibal, are you coming?” Will called from the living room.

Hannibal writhed, leaning forward and almost choking, almost sliding over the edge. He skated dangerously over the brink, but schooled himself back into a swollen state of calm.

“Yes, Will. I will be right there.”

Hannibal poured the water into the chocolate powder and watched it blossom and blend, like blood from a vein into a boiling pot of herbs. He walked out with the mug in hand, passing it quietly to Will who took it gratefully, not exactly looking up from his dogs.

Hannibal quietly made the decision that now was not the time, not yet. Maybe if Will’s dogs had died, it would have set off a different chain of events. He reached out a hand to ghost inside of Will’s curls. Will looked up with wide eyes and Hannibal leaned his face close and lightly pressed his lips to Will’s clammy temple.

His appetite for Will increased inside of him, shifted and changed, but increased nonetheless. Maybe, just maybe, Will was neither an appetizer nor an entree. Maybe Will was something more, a desert to be enjoyed and savored after each and every meal.


End file.
